Vignettes: Rescue
by my-echo
Summary: Oneshot - the first in a series. The Beast reflects, and acts.


He had not meant to lose control. Rages were like breathing—it seemed a ridiculous, useless thing to keep his own anger at people's stupidity locked inside of him. Why should he not shout, bellow, show his fury? It was natural, as ordinary and commonplace as mealtimes or broken mirrors.

The idea that his servants were people hardly ever occurred to him; ever since they had, physically and actually, been reduced to objects, it occurred to him even less. Still, he had come to grudgingly respect a few of them—or, at the very least, take the time to listen to their advice. He had always thought them simpering and stupid when he was young; this idea had lessened over the years, as it had become painfully clear that his servants were the only barrier between himself and a complete loss of humanity. When it had all begun, he had tried to wear clothes for a while, clinging to this vestige of personification, but found them cumbersome on his new body. He might have gone without them altogether had it not been for Mrs. Potts, who had demanded that he at least exercise the dignity of putting on a pair of trousers. (Still being quite young, he had acquiesced, and it had become habitual to wear them since.) He had come to enjoy wearing capes, however, without anyone else's help; they gave him a certain air, which he liked immensely. He liked the feel of them about his shoulders, the soft _swish_ as they trailed behind him, the swirl of them when he turned.

He had, unwittingly, treated the girl much as he would have one of his servants—ordering her about, shouting at her when she angered him. No-one had ever defied or disobeyed him directly; it simply did not happen. It was an alien experience; it shocked him, which made his own anger all the more potent when it became manifest. First dinner, now this—dinner had been one thing, something he had eventually, in the dark quiet of his room, elected to overlook the next day, but then she had actually had the audacity to trespass into this forbidden place—somewhere even his servants hardly ever dared go, as it was his private, moldering sanctuary, filled with ripped fabric and the splinters of crushed and broken furniture, testaments to his own nigh uncontrollable impulses—and then the Rose! How could she have been so stupid, so utterly, confoundedly idiotic? She might have made it wilt all the faster by touching its cursed petals with her fingers, might even have murdered it outright and ruined everything for good. He himself had never dared to touch it, not even once—why did she think he kept it under glass? Why was _anything_ kept under glass? So people wouldn't touch it, ruin it! Was she an imbecile? Had she no brains of her own?

One thing, however, was desperately clear—imbecilic behavior on her part or not, he had behaved impulsively, monstrously. She had deserved it thoroughly, of course, but he remembered all too well his recent lessons from Mrs. Potts in wooing and charming women—one could not behave in such a fashion toward one whose affections he hoped, however distastefully, to gain. Of course she was beautiful, and he was anything but insensible to the fact—but she infuriated him, and he could hardly imagine coming to actually love or even like her, though of course if he wished to be free of this horrific burden, he would be forced to try. He had only a vague conception of the nature of love in the first place; he had never loved anybody in his life, not even his own parents. He had felt a twinge of remorse when his mother had died of consumption in his fifth year, but when his father had been killed by a wild boar in the forest just prior to his eighth year, he had felt next to nothing. His parents had taught him well in the art of selfishness and superiority, albeit whether they realized it or not—and he had learnt the lessons well.

Restless, he opened the doors to his room, stalking into the hallway.

"Oh, Master, the most dreadful thing—"

"We tried, we tried—"

"I _told_ you not to lose your temper—"

"WHAT IS IT?" he shouted.

They cringed, and Cogsworth wrung together the metal implements which passed for hands. "She's gone, I'm afraid. Gone! Ohh—"

"Gone?" he said dully, feeling something hollow open up, something which quickly began to grow into a kind of stultifying panic.

"She ran out the door just minutes ago, saying she could not stay another minute," said Lumiere. "Oh, it is hopeless now—what are we going to do? And it is so cold, and snowing, and the wind, oh, the poor _mademoiselle—_and it is night, and the wolves—"

An icy bolt of fear shot through him then, and shoving the two aside, he leapt down the stairs and burst through the front doors, seeking out her scent. He could smell the horse, at least, even on the blasting wind, could see the racing traces of hoof-prints leading into the woods even as the blinding snow tried to obscure them.

His cape annoyed him now, blowing about him in an endless dervish, but he didn't bother to take it off; it was as much a part of him as his claws and fur, which he realized might actually prove quite useful were he to encounter any hostile creatures, like—

He heard the howl, and it sent a shiver down his spine. The snow whipped into his eyes, and he shook his huge head, clearing his vision, bounding on all fours toward the dreadful sound. This animal swiftness of which he was capable both disgusted and pleased him, at intervals—at this moment, he was nearly all animal, his humanity a mere shadow in his mind.

The girl had gotten herself surrounded; her horse had somehow managed to get its reins tangled up in a tree branch. He was suddenly, awfully, tempted for a fleeting moment to leave her to her fate, to watch as she was torn to pieces, a reward for her impertinence and foolhardy defiance.

As he watched her grab a stout stick, hitting one hungry beast square on the chin as it attempted to go for her horse's throat, a little swell of something began to rise up in him. She was braver than he had given her credit for; it was not mere foolishness which had driven her into the woods in the dead of a dark, snowy night. Still, he did not move forward yet; some part of the animal in him told him to wait for the opportune moment, when it would be more prudent and advantageous to attack the crouching, poised wolves.

They circled her, closing in; his nerves screamed to move now, but he was yet held back, his sinews tensing in anticipation almost as much as those of the creatures he planned to assault. She swung her stick uselessly now; one of the wolves gripped it in its teeth and broke it in half, and she was knocked to the ground. Another got her cloak with its teeth, pulling as the rest closed in for the kill, and she screamed.

_Now._

It was an unbelievably delicious pleasure to grab the lead wolf in his huge paws, to roar a challenge into its face. _This is my mate,_ he said in a language which had no words, _and you will not touch her. _Fellow beast to fellow beast—this was something all creatures instinctively understood, the principle of possessive protection. She was not really his mate, obviously; it was all show, but after all, the possibility existed, however remotely.

There was no human in him at this moment; he was all animal, leonine and ferocious. He paused for a moment, gauging his attack as he viciously tossed the lead wolf aside and the others eyed him warily, hungrily. Even as big a creature as he could be taken down by a carefully coordinated pack—he could see this sinister contemplation in their eyes, sizing him up, growling softly to each other as they moved slowly in for the attempt.

He moved forward before they could, diving into their midst and clawing at the lot of them, throwing off the ones which managed to find purchase in his clothes or his fur—one even managed to sink its teeth deep into his flesh, and this was so unexpectedly painful, so far removed from all his experience, that it sent him into even more of a towering rage. He flung one—was it the one which had bitten him? He did not know, did not care—with staggering force. The thing broke its neck against a tree, and it was then that the wolves seemed to rethink their strategy, seemed suddenly to realize that he was a force to be reckoned with, one they had no interest in reckoning with and thus winnowing their numbers even further tonight.

It was over; they had gone, surprisingly quickly. His senses became a blur, the pain in his arm suddenly overwhelming him. The girl—Belle—was looking at him in horror. Was it horror for the circumstances, horror at his wound, horror at his appearance? He couldn't tell—it was too much to think or feel, and in a dizzy fog, he fell to the ground, wondering if it had been worth it.

The snow was deliciously cool, almost painfully cold in places; he thought perhaps he might die here, let himself freeze into oblivion. It would not matter, at any rate—

He felt something brushing his shoulders, heard the crunching of the snow. Pressure on his arm.

"Come," she whispered, "you can get up, can't you?" and he shook his head, feeling like an ill child of five.

"Please," she whispered, and he noticed that the foolish girl had taken off her own cloak in order to keep him warm. Was she blind? Could she not see that he had his own cape, not to mention fur to spare?

"Put your cloak on," he mumbled. "You'll freeze."

"_Can _you get up?" she asked again. "If you could only get up, I'm sure Philippe could manage your weight."

He groaned and dug his claws into a nearby tree, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He somehow managed to stumble over to the horse, which knelt in a surprisingly accommodating fashion when Belle whispered in its ear—perhaps the horse somehow sensed the man beneath the monster. He let himself drift; slung over the horse's stout form like a sack of potatoes, it became easy to relax, even with the red-hot pounding in his arm. He was glad to feel the girl's cloak sliding from his shoulders; even she must have realized that it was a long walk back to the castle, and she needed every bit of clothing she could get.

A blast of warmth greeted him, at length, and he felt somewhat revived; sliding from the horse's back, he stumbled into the castle.

"Will you be all right?" she asked, and he felt a little rush of annoyance. "Put your horse in the stable," he growled. "Don't worry about me."

He made his way to the sitting-room, sank gratefully into his high-backed chair, sighed. His servants were beginning to gather around him; Mrs. Potts rushed off (at least, as much as a teapot could _rush_) to heat some water for his wound.

He hardly noticed the girl come in; gradually he came to his senses and focused on the angry wound on his arm. Animal instinct told him what he needed to do; he gingerly slid his tongue across it.

"Here, now—oh, don't do that," said the girl, holding a hot wash-cloth in her hand. He ignored her and gave her a gimlet eye to let her know he did not brook any interference. Who in heaven's name did she think she was?

"Just—hold—still—" she said, finally grabbing his arm and pressing the wash-cloth against it. The rush of horrid, stinging pain made him roar aloud.

"_THAT HURTS!"_ he shouted. _Now _would she understand? He didn't need her nurse-maiding.

"If you'd hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much!" she shouted right back—still defiant, still as stubborn as ever.

"If you hadn't run away, this wouldn't have happened," he shot back, sure that this would close her mouth.

"If you hadn't _frightened _me, I wouldn't have run away!" she cried out, and this gave him pause, because, annoyingly, she was absolutely right. Abruptly, however, he knew the perfect argument to make.

"Well, _you_ shouldn't have been in the West Wing!" he said triumphantly.

"Well, _you_ should learn to control your temper," she snapped.

He was out of comebacks. Petulant sulking was something else he was quite good at, so he rested his cheek on his fist and simply stared at the fire. He felt the light pressure of her fingers beneath his arm, and tried to ignore it.

"Now hold still," she said. "This might sting a little."

Was she actually going to try to inflict that wash-cloth on him again? He turned his head, but it was too late—she had already pressed it against his flesh, and he gritted his teeth, letting out an agonized grunt.

"By the way," she said. "Thank you—for saving my life."

He was a little shocked at this—and how gently she had spoken it.

After a moment, the words came—they stuck in his throat, awkward and haphazard, but he had been taught manners, even if he had never had much occasion to use them, and besides, this was an opportunity to prove that he was anything but a complete churl.

"You're welcome," he said, a bit grudgingly—but something in him seemed to open slightly, some part of him which had been tightly closed.


End file.
